Wimbledon: the last
bastion of Englishness -- Englishness as represented by a tweedy middle
age and middle class, cricket, cream teas and a sure sense of self-importance.
A place where old-world values collide with a self-conscious modernity.
In the England envisioned by Richard Curtis et al., London sits at the
center of the universe. Anywhere north of Milton Keynes just doesn't exist,
and ubiquitous, bumbling, sweet-natured blokes with posh voices (here
played with poise by the versatile Paul Bettany instead of Hugh Grant)
wait around for that sparkly, sexy American girl with shiny hair and beautiful
teeth. But these clichés prove minor irritations in an essentially amiable
and warm hearted romantic comedy.

Wimbledon transposes the usual Brit-Flick formula onto the
high drama of center court, complete with grunting aplenty and blindingly
white tennis kits. It tantalizes its target audience with the possibility
of a British Wimbledon champion, just as hopes that our very own Tim Henman
just might make it through were dashed, not too long ago.

Peter Colt (Bettany),
at his best only a moderately successful professional tennis player, now
languishes at the periphery of the grand slam circuit, living on past
glories. He battles the specter of yet another failure, hordes of ever
younger players and his encroaching retirement.

Meanwhile, temperamental
rising star Lizzie Bradbury (Kirsten Dunst) prepares to annihilate everyone
who stands between her and ultimate sporting glory, keenly watched by
her protective and fiercely competitive father/manager (Sam Neill) ever
wary of any prospective boyfriends. Predictably, the first meeting between
Peter and Lizzy sparks a mutual attraction, and a gentle romance blossoms.
Until the "gentleman's game," a snotty teenage prodigy and Lizzie's draconian
dad get in the way.

Peter rediscovers
his championship form while Lizzie founders. Though the ending becomes
apparent less than half way through the film, the chemistry between Wimbledon's
comely leads, the up-market, pristine locations and the beautiful weather
ensure that the film bounces along pleasantly. The best lines go to Peter's
devoted female followers (led by Celia Imrie), his warring parents and
hapless brother, and supporting players Jon Favreau (as Peter's unscrupulous
agent) and a strangely mustached Robert Lindsay.

The unremarkable but
mercifully brief DVD extras focus mainly on interviews with the cast and
crew, and an interesting mini-documentary on how to achieve those terrifying
grass serves and volleys without actually playing any tennis. (The trick
depends on a computer, several cameras and a small army of people.)

Touted on the sleeve
as "from the makers of Four Weddings and a Funeral, Bridget
Jones and Notting Hill," Wimbledon
never quite attains the hilarity and poignancy of its predecessors. But
it makes an entertaining alternative to the endless shots of sweaty spectators
replete with strawberries, cream and champagne in plastic cups found in
live-action coverage. At the same time, it proves perfectly accessible
to the uninitiated as well as the most committed armchair tennis fans.